


loud, tasteless and i've heard it all before

by montecarlos



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Fashion & Couture, Gen, M/M, Modeling, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, many fashion references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-10-10 08:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17422706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montecarlos/pseuds/montecarlos
Summary: “So, will you do it?”André hesitates. He’s heard so much about Jean-Eric, or Jev as he’s better known in the modelling industry. Jev seems to fulfil every model stereotype out there from reducing many experienced photographers, friends of André’s, to tears with his demands to throwing a fit when he was not placed on the cover of a certain edition of GQ.





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about couture fashion, so most of the stuff mentioned is lifted off Googling famous designers, and boy do some of them have ugly clothes. This is a work in progress, I'm not even sure what this is, or how long it will be, or how it will end. But bare with me, here's 6k to get you started. Title from Fashion by David Bowie. 
> 
> Many thanks to Boz, who inspired this fic and to Jazz for her amazing photo wizardry. You both are gems, ilu.

                                                        

* * *

“No way, not a chance in hell,” André says, shaking his head as he places his coffee cup down on the desk in front of him, right on top of the crisp white brief that Roger had just pushed under his nose. “He’s impossible to work with, you even said so yourself,”  
  
“André,” Roger says slowly. “You know I wouldn’t ask, but he’s scared off every bloody photographer I’ve assigned to him,”  
  
“Haven’t considered getting rid of him then? I thought diva supermodels were a 90’s thing?” Andre’s eyes flicker up to meet the older man’s.  
  
“He’s hot property at the moment. He’s an absolute dickhead but everything we put on his body sells.” Roger pushes the stack of glossy magazines towards André.  
  
André glances down at the pile - he knows all of the titles, _Marie Claire, Vogue, Elle, GQ -_ he’s worked with all of them in some capacity, photographed most of the models that grace their pages. But these publications all contain one man. His chiselled face stares out of every single cover, his dark expressive eyes enveloping the reader, pulling them in. André glances over the magazines - they’re the typical cover fodder, he’s either dressed in some monstrously expensive jacket by Dior or Moncler or an Armani suit. It bores André - same shoot, same cover every month. It’s his livelihood, but he longs for a challenge. He longs for a model that makes him want to take photo after photo, long after the battery warning on his Leica has flashed.  
  
His hands continue to thumb through the pile, through the same old photoshoots - the black and white shots, colour pops, dark eyes and white shirts, hands grabbing onto lapels - he reaches the last glossy, his fingers pausing on the name that stands out against the white background in san-serif font.  
  
_Jean-Eric Vergne._  
  
“André?” Roger’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. “So, will you do it?”  
  
André hesitates. He’s heard so much about Jean-Eric, or Jev as he’s better known in the modelling industry. Jev seems to fulfil every model stereotype out there from reducing many experienced photographers, friends of André’s, to tears with his demands to throwing a fit when he was not placed on the cover of a certain edition of GQ. André knows he shouldn’t take the assignment - but there’s something about Jean-Eric - _Jev_ \- that he’s drawn to shooting, to make the model stand out from all the others.  
  
“I’ll make it worth your while, money wise. Please, we’re desperate-”  
  
“Alright,” André says, pushing the pile of magazines to one side. “I’ll do it,”

* * *

  
André forgets about the brief for a few days. He has to fly out to New York to shoot one of his favourite models. It’s an atypical Brooklyn Bridge shoot and usually this would bore André to death - but Jerome is a dream to work with. He’s stunningly good looking, perfect porcelain skin, designer stubble, the brightest blue eyes André’s ever seen. André barely has to photoshop any of the photos - just a few filters here and there, a touch of magic to make him sparkle. He’s waiting at the airport for a coffee when his phone rings out.  
  
“Is it true?” James’s voice rings out through the din of the airport. “Did you really sell your soul to the devil?”  
  
André frowns. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“You know what I’m talking about, Lotterer. You agreed to shoot _Vergne_ .”  
  
“I did,” André says as the barista hands him his flat white. “For a sizable amount of money, like four months rent,”  
  
“But _Vergne_ , André. Jean-Eric Vergne,”  
  
André rolls his eyes as he takes a sip of his coffee. “Yes, James, I’m very aware of his name. I think everybody in the fashion world knows it,”  
  
“And his reputation,” James cuts in. “The last photographer had to leave town after Vergne had finished with him - heard he ended up at _Okay_ or something, shooting some Z-lister’s second baby-”  
  
“I’ll be fine, James. I can handle Vergne. I’ve handled worse,”  
  
“You mean like Loic?” James’s voice turns quiet and contemplative.  
  
André bites the inside of his cheek at the mention of that name. It’s been a while since anyone mentioned him. He’s still around, of course - he’s still walking catwalks in Milan and Paris, blossomed into a young beauty from the shy, retiring model that André had first shot in his early days. “I’ve moved on since then, James,”  
  
“The first cut is always the deepest,” James pauses for a moment. “Besides, Vergne is smoking hot and he’s definitely your type,”  
  
“What do you mean, my type?” André asks, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t have a type,”  
  
“You do, André. And he’s it. I mean, surely you’ve seen those photos Abt took of him-”  
  
“Ah yes, the ones of him wearing nothing but the Armani suit jacket. I found them to be in questionable taste,”  
  
James scoffs. “It’s high fashion, Lotterer. Not all of us aspire to covering our models in bees and honey-”  
  
“Which Vogue loved by the way-”  
  
“Still, most would consider that to be of questionable taste, André.” James says, pausing for a moment. “So you’re really going to shoot Vergne?”  
  
“I haven’t changed my mind in the last ten minutes. He’s a professional anyway, won’t take more than twenty minutes to get the shots that the magazine are after. I’m sure it’s just runway fodder as usual,”  
  
“If you say so, Lotterer,” James laughs.

* * *

  
Jev’s late to the photoshoot - _of course, he is, he’s a model_ \- André tells himself. The studio is busier than usual, there’s some film company painting murals next door, their thumping drum and bass cutting through the soft jazz music that Jev has insisted play in the background.  André busies himself with his camera settings, snapping out instructions to the set designers about the lighting as he waits for Jean-Eric to grace them all with his presence. And he does - twenty minutes late - wearing the ugliest pair of sunglasses that André has ever seen in his life and a paisley pashmina scarf around his scarf that surely must belong to his grandmother.  
  
“Sorry, I’m late,” Jev declares to the room. “Traffic was a nightmare and Starbucks had no soya milk for my order-”  
  
André bites his tongue and watches as Roger ushers the model into hair and make up.  
  
“I hope he takes off that ugly scarf,” He mutters to himself, as he continues to adjust the lighting.  
  
Jev does take off the ugly scarf - thankfully. André is surprised by how quickly Jev is out of hair and make up. He does however, overhear several French curses from the other room and complaints of the foundation not covering the enormous spot on his cheek that just appeared this morning.  
  
André is glad he’s had his standard two cups of coffee by the time Jev finally emerges in his custom-made Valentino suit. André is disappointed to say the least when he sees it - not because it doesn’t fit perfectly against every curve of Jev’s body - it _does_ \- but it’s so safe and boring. The ensemble is pure white - with only a smidgeon of red piping around the lapels. It’s editorial, it’s clean and Vogue and Marie Claire would practically throw money at him to get the negatives of the world’s hottest model in such a design, but it’s so _boring_ to André.  
  
“Monsieur Lotterer,” Jev says, gracefully marching up to André and snapping him out of his thoughts. He extends a hand. “I’ve heard many things about you,”  
  
“And I have heard many things about you,” André says, accepting the firm handshake.  
  
“Yes, well,” Jev sniffs. “Shall we begin? I have a dinner reservation with Jean-Paul Gaultier which I cannot miss in about an hour,”  
  
André grits his teeth and nods. He’s got a feeling that this is going to be the longest photo session of his career.

* * *

  
The shoot starts off well. Jev responds well to the direction André gives, and even offers a few of his own poses. The photographer is given a glimpse of why the model is considered one of the best in the world. He does look stunning in the suit, sprawled effortlessly against the white wall. But his expression looks bored, like it’s just another job. The photos will look beautiful, André is certain of that, but they just don’t feel _right._  
  
It doesn’t take long, however, for the reputation for which Jev is famous to emerge when they take a short break for André to reset the lighting. “Where’s my bottled water?” Jev hisses at his PA, who wordlessly presses a bottle of Evian into the model’s hands. “I asked for _sparkling water_. _Mon dieu_ , do I have to do everything myself?”  
  
“I’m sorry, Monsieur Jean. I’ll make sure there’s some in the car before the meeting with Monsieur Gaultier,”  
  
“Unacceptable,” Jev sneers. “I hope you brought my Gaultier jacket, you know the one with the gold accents and the Hawaiian print,”  
  
“No, Monsieur. The camel jacket with the blue and brown stripes, the oversized one,” The PA stutters, biting his lip.  
  
“That’s Westwood!” Jev explodes, his face reddening even through a full face of make-up. “You are so incompetent! How am I supposed to have a lunch with Monsieur Gaultier wearing a different designer? It’s like going into Balenciaga in Paco Rabanne! Going to a Gucci event dressed in Versace!”  
  
“Is there a problem?” André cuts in, glancing between the two men.  
  
“No. I am just surrounded by idiots,” Jev snaps as the make-up artist rushes over to fix the red blotches that have broken out across his skin.  
  
André resists the urge to sigh as he glances at the tall man. He’s beautiful - there’s no denying that - has the typical traits that most agencies look for. Long legs, excellent physique, hair that isn’t too long or too short, strong and sharp cheekbones. It’s certainly a shame, André thinks, that his reputation certainly precedes him. But he stays quiet - it’s not worth eliciting the wrath of a model, certainly not one so well connected with so many designers.  
  
The promise of staying quiet lasts only a further two minutes after André picks up his camera. Jev is still standing against the white backdrop, in the stunning white suit - _who honestly thought this was couture_ \- looking lifeless and uninspiring.  
  
“For goodness sake, how much longer do I need to stand in this position?” Jev mumbles under his breath in French, barely audible over the soft jazz playing in the studio and over the clicking of André’s Leica.  
  
André lowers his camera. “For as long as it takes for you to have a bit of life in you, Jean-Eric,” He spits back in French, the words falling away from his mouth before he can stop them. “So I suggest you look a little more inspired if you want to make the cover,”  
  
Jev’s eyes darken with anger. “It’s your job to make sure I make the cover,” He replies, icily. “It can only work with what I have. A dull set and an _uninspiring photographer_ ,”  
  
André bites back a laugh. “Uninspiring? Not what GQ or Edo Mortara said last month when I shot their autumn cover,”  
  
“Edo is an _amateur_.” Jev sniffs. “He modelled for Burberry and H&M, he’s hardly high fashion.”  
  
“Not everyone is forged in couture fashion, Jean-Eric,” André can’t stop the words from falling out. He ignores the panicked glances of Jev’s PA and Roger in the shadows of the studio. “Wearing a bespoke custom design isn’t enough to wow people anymore,” He says, his eyes falling on the suit, still gleaming under the studio lights.  
  
“So what do you suggest, Monsieur Lotterer?” Jev asks haughtily. “They insisted on this design,”  
  
André thinks for a moment. The drum and bass that is still pounding from the artist set next door seems to intensify in the silence. Jev folds his arms, glancing down at his Rolex watch and muttering in French but André pays him no attention. His eyes rove over the white background, over the white suit - _white, white, white, no contrast_ \- before an idea suddenly comes to him, helped by the drum and bass. “I’ll be one minute,” He announces, slipping away from the room.  


* * *

  
“No way! This was not part of the brief!” Jev shakes his head, crossing his hands over the pristine suit. “Monsieur Valentino would go insane!”  
  
André laughs and holds up the two tins of paint. “C’mon, Jev, this is what the shoot needs. This would be so editorial - think like enfant terrible, Alexander McQueen, Jean-Paul Gaultier. Just imagine it - you standing in a pristine white suit, a bespoke piece, that is destroyed and made even more unique by the brightness of the paint,”  
  
Jev hesitates, worrying his lip. “But, I-”  
  
“This will make the cover, Jean-Eric.” André states, his voice full of intent. “This will have you booked for every fashion week you can think of, every cover you imagine,”  
  
“I already have every cover you could ever imagine,” Jev snaps, his eyes liquid amber. “I am due to walk in Paris, Milan, London, New York - whichever runway comes to mind, I’ve walked it. I have nothing to prove to you, Monsieur Lotterer,”  
  
André chuckles. “You list all your accomplishments, yet you are happy to make me shoot you in one of the most boring ensembles ever.”  
  
“Boring?” Jev snarls. “I am _anything_ but boring. I modelled for Givenchy when I was 18 years old. I was Mugler’s inspiration for three whole seasons, the _ange terrible_ -” The words pause in mid air as the paint hits the side of his face. André smirks, lowering the tin as he glances at the black paint dripping down the curve of Jev’s sharp cheekbone, over his neck and sweeping down the lapel of the white Valentino suit.  
  
“Have you lost your mind?” Jev screams as André places the tins on the floor and picks up his Leica, his eyes fixed on the paint dripping down over the white material. Valentino will be upset, sure, but he’s certain to sell a lot more of his collection with the hottest model of the moment covered in one of his destroyed designs.  
  
“Haven’t you ever heard of making a statement?” André asks over the clicking of his Leica. Jev just glares at him in fury with folded arms. “You could do something a little more animated, as wonderful as these shots are-” André says, as he dances  around Jev, taking photograph after photograph. It looks exquisite - Jev is all dark eyes and sharp cheekbones highlighted by the darkness of the paint still dripping down the lapel of his suit.  
  
“I’m covered in paint,” Jev mutters, looking murderous. “You’ve ruined a design that costs thousands, Lotterer,”  
  
André chooses to ignore the model’s words, beckoning over an assistant. “I want you to continue throwing paint on Jean-Eric whilst I shoot,” He says, motioning to the two cans.  
  
“Don’t ignore me!” Jev snarls, glaring at André. “Nowhere in my contract, does it state that I agreed to be covered in paint and the designer’s work destroyed by some poster paint! I have never been treated like this before in my entire career and it’s unacceptable-” However, as Jev moves to exit the set, the assistant throws more paint in his way and André smirks, documenting every moment as the gold paint - a perfect contrast - drips down the curve of Jev’s curls, over the cut of his cheekbones and drips down onto the opposite side of his suit.  
  
“Have you completely lost your mind?” Jev roars at the assistant over the clicking of André’s Leica. “And you-” He snaps at André. “What are you thinking? I can make sure you never work for another fashion magazine again-”  
  
Another slop of paint. This time, it’s the black, painting the pristine white shirt. Jev stands glowering in silence as André sweeps around him, snapping angle after angle. André is interesting to watch - and Jev can’t say that about many photographers he’s worked with. André is able to give direction, reinvent new ideas, and he’s easy on the eye. He’s dressed well - Jev knows that his jeans aren’t cheap, his shirt is Ted Baker and the premature grey hair that Jev initially thought marked the photographer as old actually suits him. He winces for a moment as a streak of gold paint streaks across his chin, but André continues snapping away, moving fluidly around Jev to capture every angle, his Leica an extension of his body.  
  
“Was that so difficult?” André’s voice snaps through the silence, the clicking of the shutter finally ceased. He holds out his camera, showing off the most recent photograph for Jev to see before the younger man can answer. Jev leans in, eyes raking over the picture, expecting to see a mess. But he doesn’t. He looks strong and powerful with his face streaked by black and gold, the colours curling over the once-pristine suit. He looks amazing - one of these photographs will certainly make the cover, he’s certain of that.  
  
As he glances up at André, the older man smirks at him as though he can read his thoughts.

* * *

  
“You threw paint on him? You, André Lotterer, threw paint on Jean-Eric Vergne?” James’s tone is full of disbelief. “And he let you?” They’re both sat in André’s lounge, poring over the photographs of Jev, scattered in James’s lap and over the coffee table.  
  
André smiles as he takes a sip of his coffee. “He didn’t really have a choice. I just threw it on him whilst he had his diva moment,”  
  
“They’re beautiful, though, ‘dre.” James says, his eyes flickering through the glossy images. “Absolutely stunning. He does photograph well,”  
  
André hums in agreement. “He does. Just a shame that he never sees the bigger picture, he was happy to just have the plain boring white on white shoots for the cover,”  
  
“Well, models have never been the innovators of this industry, ‘dre. It’s the people behind the scenes who do that,” James says, nodding in agreement. “I just can’t believe you pulled it off.”  
  
“You shouldn’t doubt me, Rossiter. You know what I’m capable of,” André smirks, placing his coffee cup on the table. “You should know better, especially after Japan-”  
  
“I don’t know what you mean,” James says with a smile, leaning into the older man, his eyes roving over the top three buttons of André’s shirt.  
  
“I think you do,” André murmurs, sealing their lips together. They kiss slowly, their lips moving against each other. James sighs against André’s mouth - a low hum of satisfaction pushing against his lips. “You remember Japan, don’t you?”  
  
“Maybe I need a reminder,” James says, smirking as André’s hand slides down to unbutton his jeans, smiling against the slick of his lips. The photographs of Jev lay forgotten as the kiss deepens, André’s hand tugging at the button.

* * *

  
André smiles as he leans back against the pillows, James huffing in satisfaction as he sinks into the pillow next to him. “That was amazing,”  
  
“Almost as good as Japan then?” André says, smirking as he lights up a cigarette, drawing from the tube slowly, a plume of white smoke billowing into the air.  
  
“We were a bit younger back then, ‘dre. And more flexible,” James laughs. “I thought you quit?”  
  
“I did,” André says quietly. “One post-coital cigarette never hurt anyone,”  
  
The two men are silent for a moment, the only sound is that of the rain falling outside and André blowing out tendrils of smoke.  
  
“So, what did you think of Vergne? Is he as smoking hot as his photos?” James asks, rolling over onto his side, his hand moving to lazily rush circles on André’s chest.  
  
“He’s very attractive, shame he’s an absolute dickhead,” André replies, moving closer into James’s touch. “Wouldn’t kick him out of bed, mind,”  
  
“But you’re always the professional,” James laughs. “How many times did you shoot with Jerome before you fucked him?”  
  
André smiles as he stubs out the cigarette. “I like playing hard to get, unlike _some people_ ,”  
  
“Don’t know what you mean, Lotterer,” James smirks, his finger pausing on André’s chest. “Are you saying you’re ready for round two?”  
  
“You’re insatiable, Rossiter,” André says as he closes the gap between them, his lips moving to seal over James’s, his hand moving to fist into the dark curls at the nape of the younger man’s neck. It’s good to unwind sometimes.

* * *

  
_Jev, the New Hooligan of Fashion._ The sans-sarif font is dark against the white background of the glossy magazine. Jev’s trying to ignore the make up artist, the brushes a constant annoyance as they streak across his face, the man’s mutterings in his ear about the spot that would have gone down if he’d applied the correct treatment. Jev stares down at his own face, emblazoned on the cover in the paint splattered Valentino suit, the black and gold paint playing off the sharp angles of his face. It looks stunning. Everybody who was anybody raved about it - there was talk of all the major fashion designers debuting paint splattered clothes in their collections. Even Valentino himself had called Jev to congratulate him on creating a new take on fashion, calling it inspired and groundbreaking. Jev flicks through the glossy pages, pausing when he reaches his own face. Every photo is breathtaking - Jev knows that he’s attractive, he’s a model for goodness sake, he’s paid to _look good_ \- but these photos elevate him to another level.  
  
_Photographer: André Lotterer_  
  
Jev’s thoughts turn to the photographer. There was something intriguing about him - how he ignored Jev’s tantrums, went completely against the brief and ended up with a portfolio of stunning photographs. Jev can count on one hand the number of photographers he hasn’t made cry or has dared to speak back to him. He knows his own reputation within the business - but it’s that reputation that he’s forged which has made him the best in the industry. Nobody takes terrible photos of Jev. It’s unheard of - and these ones are amongst the best he’s seen of himself. This photographer - this André guy - knows _how_ to take photos. He’s also easy on the eye, Jev notes. He’s not in the habit of fucking photographers or PAs or everyone he comes into contact with at work, he’s never really defined his own sexuality, but there’s something about André that just interests him, makes him want to dig deeper-  
  
The brush startles him out of his daydream. He closes the magazine and glances into the mirror at his own reflection.  
  
“I told you to go easy on the bronzer,” Jev snaps, eyes dark. “I want a natural glow. We’re not promoting a tanning salon here,”  
  
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Jean-Eric,” A familiar voice pipes up from behind him, and Jev sees him reflected back in the mirror. Sam Bird shouldn’t really be in the fashion world - he’s far too short for runway, but he’s somehow managed to forge a career from being different as is the norm with most models nowadays. He looks stunning as always, his blonde hair slicked back, the buttons undone on his white cotton shirt. “Saw your paint covered ode to Van Gogh and Starry Night,”  
  
Jev turns to the make-up artist. “I think that’s enough for now,” He says with a sniff, watching carefully as she wordlessly exits the room. “What are you doing here, Sam?” Jev asks, after her footsteps die away.  
  
“I asked first,” Sam says, leaning in the doorway, arms folded.  
  
“Working. What does it look like?”  
  
“Sarcastic as always, my darling,”  
  
“You never answered my question,” Jev says, glancing back to the blonde man. “What kind of underwear shoot is it today?”  
  
“It’s not,” Sam smirks. “I’m working with that photographer you had for your paint shoot. Andrew? André? You know who I mean,”  
  
“Maybe he’ll throw paint on you too then,” Jev says, getting out of his chair.  
  
“Maybe,” The smile on Sam’s lips remains as he moves closer to the taller man. “Maybe, I could remove that stick that has been up your ass for the past two years,”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam,” Jev says, glancing down into dark blue eyes.  
  
But Sam stays where he is, gaze locked on the younger man. “I think you do. You can’t have forgotten all those times we’d go back to your apartment and blow off steam after those photoshoots, Jev,”  
  
“Sam-” Jev murmurs, eyes fixed on the shorter man’s lips. “We shouldn’t-”  
  
“What is stopping us?” Sam has _that_ look on his face - the one that Jev knows there’s no coming back from, no amount of persuasion will make the blonde change his mind. “Everyone knows models are a little late now and then,” His hand closes over the lapel of Jev’s shirt. “You should live a little,”  
  
Jev’s amber eyes lock on Sam’s dark blue ones. “So what are you waiting for?”  
  
Sam answers with his lips.

* * *

  
They’re just as soft and warm as Jev remembers. He groans as Sam’s warm tongue brushes past his lips, his hands fisting into the lapels of Jev’s suit. Their tongues collide against one another, their hands mapping over one another’s bodies in a rush - Jev can feel the heat pooling in his lower abdomen as Sam’s lithe form slides against his own, locking together like they used to.  
  
“Did you miss this?” Sam mutters between swollen lips. “I bet you did didn’t you? Missed having my cock inside you-”  
  
“Shut up,” Jev hisses, silencing Sam with his mouth. He bites down on the shorter man’s lip, eliciting a moan from him as he shoves him up against the wall. Sam groans as his back makes impact with the concrete, Jev’s taller form envelopes him - their tongues tangle, their teeth scrape against one another as Jev’s hand moves down to tug at Sam’s belt.  
  
“Mmmm, someone’s eager,” Sam mutters, ripping his lips away, his teeth scraping over the stubble that dusts over Jev’s neck and cheekbones. Jev yanks the leather strip free and the only sound that fills the room is that of their hushed, heaving breathing and the teeth of Sam’s jeans slowly unzipping.  
  
“Stop talking,” Jev hisses, ripping his mouth away. He can feel Sam’s smirk as he drops to his knees. It’s been a while since he’s done this - he and Sam used to have a thing back when they were both struggling models who barely made enough to feed themselves - back when the other thing they had was one another. Jev blinks up at Sam through heavy lidded eyes, thick eyelashes and moves in, his hands slowly pulling Sam’s expensive designer underwear away. His cock looks no different, it’s still thick, flushed and erect, framed by a dark dusting of pubic hair. Jev knows it _very well_ , he’s been fucked by it many a time.  
  
It’s easy enough in the end. Sam’s head falls against the wall as Jev’s mouth envelopes his half-hard cock. He can feel Sam’s hands twist into his hair, no doubt messing it up moments before he goes on set, but he doesn’t care right now.  It’s been a while since he’s been this close to someone, since he’s been this intimate with someone outside of a photoshoot. And Sam is easy to slip back into - he’s familiar. His groans fill the air as Jev slowly rolls his tongue over the underside of his cock, tracing over the vein he knows is there.  
  
“Oh, fuck Jev-” Sam murmurs as Jev’s tongue sweeps over the tip of the leaking head of his cock, the taste of salt suddenly bursting over his tongue. “You’re so good at this, oh god-”  
  
Jev smirks at Sam’s words. He’s always been a pro at this and Sam _knows_ it. Sam mewls as Jev pulls off his cock with a pop, his swollen lips glistening in the dim light of the dressing room. He’s about to complain when Jev moves back in, his hands tightening around Sam’s thighs.  
  
“Oh god,” Sam mutters as Jev’s mouth traces over his balls, moving back to work on his leaking shaft. His hands tighten on Jev’s hair, tugging it as another sigh pulls from his lips. Jev groans around Sam’s dick as the pressure on his hair intensifies. His knees ache and he knows that he should be out shooting photos at the moment, but he doesn’t care. His attention is all on Sam, on how debauched he looks - his shirt falling open, his mouth the same, his hair a complete mess. Jev smiles as he takes Sam deeper, his fingernails cutting crescent shaped moons into Sam’s creamy thighs - Sam moans deeper, louder, heat building in his lower abdomen-  
  
“Well, this is interesting,” A familiar voice pipes up from behind them. Jev pulls himself away from Sam, his lips still slick with semen and saliva. André stands, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk on his face.  
  
Jev wipes off his mouth staring at the older man. André says nothing else but raises an eyebrow before he turns on his heel and walks away. Jev watches him leave with an open mouth whilst Sam smirks, tugging up his trousers.  
  
“We should have asked him to join in,”  
  
Jev can’t answer, he only nods half in acceptance.

* * *

  
Jev’s photoshoot is a disaster to say the least. He is distracted the entire way through it. He knows he shouldn’t be, it’s a simple enough shoot, just standing in front of a blank background, modelling the Rolex watch, but his thoughts are elsewhere. Jev can’t help but think about how innovative André was in their photoshoot together, how he smirked when he lowered the paint can, the same smirk that danced in his eyes as he gazed over himself and Sam -  
  
He’s lucky in a way. His photographer for this particular assignment is one of the wallflower types - shy, retiring and quiet. He only speaks up to make Jev position his body ever so slightly, and a tone that is asking, not telling. His thoughts turn back to Sam and what kind of photoshoot André is making him undertake - not that it is an issue for Sam, he is well known in the industry for being easy to work with. He never complains, apparently - not even when he did a massive photoshoot for Vogue where he was dressed in nothing but the colourful powder they use at the festival of Holi, splattered across his naked body.    
  
“I think we’re done here,” The photographer says, in the most convincing tone he’s had for the entire session.  
  
Jev bites back the insult that bubbled over his tongue and leaves the studio area, hoping to disappear before Sam and André turn up. His hopes, however, are dashed, as he’s just sliding out of the designer shirt when Sam sidles into the room with a satisfied smile on his face. He’s dressed in nothing but a robe and Jev is trying not to glance at glistening pale skin, wondering what on earth André had him do. Jev busies himself, pulling the cap off his bottle of Evian, eyes averted. “He tied me up with rope,” Sam answers the silent question hanging in the air.  
  
Jev chokes on the sip of water he’s just taken. “W-what?” He asks, eyes wide.  
  
“He made me pose with just rope around my body,” Sam says with a smile. “Was one of the best photoshoots I’ve ever been on,”  
  
“Just rope?” Jev asks, picking at the label on his Evian.  
  
“Yep,” Sam pops the p of the word, which he knows Jev _hates_ . “It's not the first time a photographer has asked me to get my kit off,”  
  
Jev bites back a response, trying not to think about André sweeping around Sam in the same fashion, the only sound is that of his Leica. Surely André wouldn't advocate Sam taking all his clothes off for a shoot?  
  
“Interesting,” Jev finally spits out, his voice quiet. There’s the warmth of a hand on his shoulder suddenly, dark blue eyes stare into his own amber ones.  
  
“What’s interesting?” Sam asks, his voice dipping low, the smirk stretching across his face. “Shouldn’t we pick up where we left off?”  
  
“Sam, we shouldn’t-” Jev pushes Sam’s hand away.  
  
“Why?” The smirk intensifies. “You were fine with sucking my cock half an hour ago,”  
  
“I - just-” Jev begins, sighing. “I have to work,”  
  
“You always work,” Sam’s voice softens ever so slightly. “You should let loose every now and then,”  
  
Jev knows he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t give in, like he did in the past.  
  
He ends up in between rumpled Egyptian cotton sheets, Sam panting into his collarbone. He’s given in again, he thinks as Sam’s breath rolls against his sweaty skin, his leaking spent cock pressed against his thigh.

* * *

  
“You saw Sam Bird and Jean-Eric Vergne doing what?” James’s eyes are wide.  
  
They lay side by side in the bed - André is not one for cuddling after sex, James knows this well, it’s an arrangement they’ve had for years - he plucks the cigarette out of André’s fingers and takes a lazy drag. “I mean, it doesn’t surprise me, models do tend to sleep with one another but I always thought Vergne-” He pauses, waving the cigarette. “He’s an ice king isn’t he?”  
  
“What do you mean?” André asks with a laugh as he snatches back the cigarette.  
  
“Like, he doesn’t let anyone get close. He likes to be professional,”  
  
“Nothing much professional about sucking another model’s dick,”  
  
James snorts. “Maybe he had to cut loose? He’s famous. Every time he looks at a woman, the press report on it,”  
  
“Sounds like a horrible life,” André blows out smoke.  
  
“That’s why we chose a life behind the lens,”  
  
André nods as he puts the cigarette out in the ashtray by the side of the bed, wondering what is it like for the people on the other side of the lens, people like Jean-Eric Vergne, whose lives are constantly scrutinised by others. “Anyway, ready for round two?”  
  
James smirks in response as André’s hand snakes over his bare thigh. It’s never been anything more than a casual thing between himself and James, it’s never needed to be. André knows not to get involved with models - not since Loic had walked into his life and then left when the runways came calling. It’s easier to keep people at arm’s length, keep sex to exactly _that_ \- sex.  
  
James’ hand inches its way towards his swelling cock and it’s easy enough to forget.

* * *

  
Jev is at another dull photoshoot - he loves his job, he really does - but after the seventh photoshoot in a week of standing in the same poses, employing the same expression on his face in yet another designer suit, he begins to feel the boredom.  
  
He snaps at his assistant to bring him another bottle of Evian, resists the urge to roll his eyes as the photographer tentatively asks him to angle his body a little more towards the camera, _merci Monsieur Vergne_ \- he’s thankful for the short break a few moments later, collapsing into the chair as he sips on his bottle of water. Trying to ignore the brush constantly dancing over his cheeks as he turns his attention to the glossy magazine at the side. Sam’s lithe muscular body fills the space on the cover. He looks incredible. His body glistens in the lighting, the only thing covering his body is a section of rope around his midsection. It is simple enough but the way it's staged, the way Sam's skin almost seems to glitter against the rope, the heavy kohl around his eyes makes him look almost statuesque. It's Andrés work, Jev is certain.

“Lucien!” Jev barks at his assistant.

Lucien, his long-suffering assistant is immediately at his side, wielding another bottle of Evian. “More water Monsieur?”

Jev frowns at the proffered water. “Not water you imbecile. I want another shoot with _him.”_ He taps the glossy cover. 


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> André and Jev finally meet again at a shoot with an interesting and important concept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, this time it's Jeandré's turn to be updated and just in time for Valentines Day. This fic isn't actually heading in the direction I wanted it to go - initially it was going to be two parts and this part was going to be significantly longer but hey, aus always have a way of running away from you. 
> 
> Many thanks to the FE group chat for their coffee ideas and to Jazz and Rae for their neverending support and belief in me.

                                                       [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155771912@N04/46173731825/in/dateposted-public/)

 

* * *

 

It’s a nightmare to even get hold of André. He doesn’t have an agency or a manager, which Jev finds extremely strange - and the emails Lucien sent to the address provided on André’s website have remained unanswered.  
  
“He’s probably on an assignment somewhere, Monsieur. You know these photographer types, they travel all over the world,” Lucien says, hoping to placate the stroppy model as he hands him his coffee (triple shot venti, no foam latte with soy milk).  
  
Jev frowns as he takes a sip. “This is ridiculous. I’m on the runways of every fashion show this season that matters. He could at least decline my offer,”  
  
“Why do you want to work with him again? He threw paint on you last time,”  
  
“Because he wasn’t like the others,” Jev bites out.  
  
Lucien says nothing, noting the magazines strewn around Jev’s workspace. They’re all glossy magazines with different titles and articles emblazoning the front, but the photographs are all the work of one man. Lucien watches Jev’s eyes slowly glance over each cover, committing each concept to memory.

* * *

  
“I’m not doing it,” André says, pushing the brief back towards Roger before folding his arms and sinking into the soft leather of the chair.  
  
“But they asked for you specifically, Lotterer. Think how much attention you would get-”  
  
“I’m supposed to be behind the lens, not in front of it. Besides, I have that assignment in Brazil with Lucas and I’m simply not willing to postpone that for the sake of some magazine’s pride feature-”  
  
“André,” Roger says, carefully. “You’re not going to Brazil for another two weeks. They’re just asking for a photo session with you,”  
  
“And I told you that I’m supposed to be the one taking the photos, not the one in front of the camera. Did you read the brief? They want to cover me in stripes of paint, like the LGBT flag,”  
  
“Well, it’s a feature on LGBT people working in fashion-”  
  
“There’s loads of photographers they could use!” André snaps, glaring at the brief lying innocuously on the desk. “I’m not the only gay photographer out there,”  
  
“Loïc is going to be there,”  
  
André grits his teeth. He knows that was Roger’s ace card, the silver bullet that he held onto until the last moment. Roger knows all about André and Loïc - from the beginnings of their careers when Loïc was a fresh-faced model in simple white shirts and André was a still-wet-behind-the-ears photographer, fresh from shooting weddings and christenings for various people. They had connected straight away, Loïc always knew where to position his body, the effect of what André wanted to portray, what expression to convey - it was like a silent conversation between the two of them.  
  
“That’s not fair, Roger,” André says, huffing. “You know the history between us,”  
  
“And I know you haven’t seen him for three years,”  
  
“His decision, not mine-” André cuts in, brow furrowed.  
  
“It could be good for you two to see each other again,” Roger explores the notion tentatively before he’s silenced by a scathing look from André.  
  
“Sure, Rog, would be great to see him again, you know after last time, when he threw wine in my face and then pretended I didn’t exist,”  
  
“Well,” Roger worries his lip. “Jean-Eric Vergne is also attending the photoshoot,”  
  
That little detail forces André’s eyebrow to raise in surprise. “ _The_ Jean-Eric Vergne? What is he doing in a little LGBT feature?”  
  
“It’s not a little LGBT feature. It’s for Vogue. They wanted a variety of different models, photographers and such who work behind the scenes. Why wouldn’t they ask Vergne? He’s the hottest property at the moment,”  
  
“I didn’t know he was gay,” André tries not to think about the position he had found the French supermodel in a few months earlier with Sam Bird. He remembers the blush that had fallen over his cheeks at the sight of finding two models of their pedigree entwined together. It was not uncommon to find models sleeping together, but he had only ever seen Jev with stunning beautiful women on his arm.  
  
“He’s bisexual,” Roger says, as though this is public knowledge - it probably is, André never concerns him with current affairs of any sort. He spends most of his time out of the country in various places and when he’s not working, he’s usually editing his portfolio before his phone rings and Roger pleads with him to go on another assignment. “They’re including a number of different people with different sexualities. It’s just going to be a few shots,”  
  
“Yeah, copying a photoshoot I did months ago,” André mutters under his breath. “I’ll only do it if I can shoot the other models. And I want James to do my shoot,”  
  
Roger opens his mouth and closes it again. “I’ll see what I can do,”

* * *

  
“How difficult is it to make a triple-shot frappe, easy on the ice with space for extra milk?” Jev seethes at Lucien as he arrives at the photoshoot, ten minutes late, tossing his bespoke coat at the long suffering man.  
  
He’s immediately ushered towards the direction of hair and make-up, but something catches his attention. He moves towards the large group of people who seem to have assembled in the studio. He doesn’t recognise the photographer - a spritely young thing with artful designer stubble and a fade, his face hidden by the giant camera that snaps every few seconds. But it’s the model that takes Jev’s breath away. It’s _André_. It’s the photographer he has practically begged to work with again.

André stands in the middle of the white background, clothed only in a pair of white jeans. Paint of different colours - red, orange, yellow, blue, green and purple all drip down his face, over his neck and down the expanse of his chest. Jev feels his mouth go dry at the sight. His expression is stoic and he doesn’t position his body right as a model would know to do, but it doesn’t matter. He looks incredible covered in the rainbow paint, the LGBT colours proudly displayed over his entire body.  
  
“How many more shots do you need, James?” André mutters under his breath, his expression unwavering.  
  
Jev feels a smile brush against his lips at the comment. Of course, André would have no idea how annoying it was to stand in the same position for what seemed like thirty shots, but the photographer - James - pays no attention.  
  
“I want some side profile shots, all that rainbow paint on your face looks amazing-” James says from behind his camera and Jev has to bite back a laugh as André turns to the side, eager for the entire ordeal to be over.

* * *

  
Jev is almost expecting to be slopped with some more paint again - which he finds so unoriginal these days, everyone seems to be slopping paint all over their couture. He’s asked to dress in a simple flowy white shirt and jeans and sighs internally. It reminds him of the white suit, of the slops of black and gold paint, of the way everyone had gushed over how couture the shoot was. Jev had had the busiest week of his career when that shoot had emblazoned the front cover. He was already in demand, but it seemed to go into overdrive.  
  
He steps out into the sterile lights of the studio, expecting to have some assistant at the side holding a bucket, only to find André standing in the middle of the space with his Leica held loosely between his hands.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Jev can’t stop the words from leaving his lips. He knows it’s probably rude, but André’s used to such behaviour - Jev can tell from the way his lips upturn ever so slightly with a smirk, before it disappears again.  
  
“You thought that I’d participate in a photoshoot and not request to do what I do best?” André asks, quirking an eyebrow.  
  
Jev bites back the response he wants to give, that André did a pretty good job of modelling in front of the lens. “How much paint do you want to throw on me today?”  
  
André smirks. “Oh, I’m not throwing paint on you. They requested that particular shoot for me, and I insisted that James did it, he’s always wanted to throw paint on me so-”  
  
“So what are we doing?”  
  
André holds up what looks like a glass prism from his other hand. “We’re going to cast rainbows on that beautiful face of yours,”  
  
Jev fights the urge to blush before correcting himself - he’s used to photographers flirting, but André is different. The photographer doesn’t seem to notice the effect he has had as he maneuvers Jev into position.  
  
“Seems a little tame compared to what you usually do,”  
  
André smirks. “I always have something up my sleeve,”  
  
And he does. It isn’t long into the shoot that André is asking for the top two buttons on Jev’s shirt to be unbuttoned. Jev complies - it’s not an uncommon request - the clicking of André’s Leica filling the air, the prism slowly rotating in between his fingers casting the rainbows over Jev’s face and neck.  
  
“Could you undo a few more buttons?” André asks, unmoving from behind his Leica.  
  
Jev doesn’t bat an eyelid as he undoes the next two buttons with steady hands, slowly turning towards the studio lights. The rainbow effect flutters across his body, illuminating the pale skin of his collarbone and down his bare chest. The clicking continues as Jev turns his head slightly to gaze into the distance. “Think we need a few more buttons, Jev-”  
  
“Why?” Jev asks, snapping out of his reverie.  
  
“Because the shirt is disrupting the rainbow effect that is washing over your torso,” André says, glancing over at the model over the top of his camera. “Don’t be shy, I know you want the cover of this edition,”  
  
He’s right. Jev does want that cover. His hands slowly slide down over the shirt, undoing each button one by one. It’s a little cold inside the studio and the air is cool against his warm skin, but he’s spurred on by the frantic clicking of André’s camera. He notices that André barely speaks aloud to position his model, allowing the shoot to always be as organic as possible. Jev tries to focus on switching up his expression and the position of his hands as André moves around him wordlessly snapping photo after photo. It’s quite tame compared to some of André’s work, but Jev knows this isn’t the end.  
  
Jev slowly peels the shirt away from his body, the rapid sound of clicks from the Leica signalling André’s appreciation of his decision. The rainbow light shifts over his body, illuminating a thin line of pale chest. André finally lowers his camera, blue eyes fixed on Jev’s body. “How do you feel about getting your pants off too?”  
  
“That will never make the cover,” Jev snaps, looking offended. “They would never put me on the cover with nothing but light covering my body,”  
  
“Wouldn’t just be light covering your body though, _Monsieur_ ,” André says with a smirk. He holds up a rainbow flag, that has appeared from seemingly nowhere, clutched in his hand.  
  
Jev stares at the bright thin fabric and worries his lip. “I’d get so much crap for that-”  
  
“C’mon now, Jean,” André murmurs, his voice like honey. “You know this will shock them. A naked bisexual man holding nothing but a symbol of his sexuality. It’s such a powerful image isn’t it? We can go with the light photos though, if you’re more comfortable-”  
  
Jev shakes his head. He’s always been the type of model who has wanted to push the boundaries, the concept of what is right in modelling. André smiles as the jeans slowly hit the floor into a soft crumple, the rainbow flag snatched from his fingers.

* * *

  
André smiles at himself as he places his Leica down on the table for a moment, his eyes flickering to the laptop showcasing the shots he’d managed to get of Jev. He _knows_ that one of these will be the cover, it’s the sort of image that makes people take notice - certainly, one of the world’s hottest models wearing nothing but a LGBT rainbow flag draped over his pale skin will do that. But he has to focus. He has other models to shoot - it’s certainly a shame that Jev insisted on going first, the adrenaline that was coursing through his veins as he photographed the stunning French model have eked away to nothing.  
  
However, the calm that rolls over the studio is soon broken by a familiar voice. “Where do you want me?”  
  
André freezes. He has his back to the model, but he would know that voice anywhere. He still dreams about that voice, coaxing him back to bed with warm eyes and hands. He knew that this was going to happen, but still - it’s been years since he last saw him. André turns around slowly, trying to keep a neutral expression on his face.

“Hello, Loïc. Long time no see,”

* * *

 


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> andré comes face to face with the one person who hurt him all those years ago and tries to deal with it like a professional. he fails badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry that this has veered off into Jeandre fuck other people territory, but I promise it's needed in order to further the story. I am hoping to bring them together in the next chapter - also, on that, I am now unsure how many chapters this will be, but will keep updating as necessary until I find a good ending point. I have no major plotline for this story and am writing organically but it's the best thing for this story right now. Enjoy! :)
> 
> A big thank you to Jazzy for all the cheerleading on this part.

Loïc to his credit looks impassive at the sight of André standing before him.  “I didn’t know you were the photographer, mon cherie,”   
  
André tries not to wince at the nickname. It certainly sounds different brushing against Loïc ’s lips now they’re both older and wiser (maybe not wiser in André’s book) and no longer two young men against the fashion world, fighting to be heard. His fingers tighten around his Leica as Loïc steps into the room. André hasn’t seen him in the flesh for years, not since he’d gone off to become the superstar he now was, modelling for every designer one could think of. André can’t help but feel like he’s not good enough - it’s a ridiculous notion, he’s shot for so many high-end publications - but seeing Loïc again makes me feel twenty-four again, wet behind the ears with amateur shots in his portfolio.  He looks the same as his photographs, hair perfectly messy and his lips painted with a rainbow.   
  
“I didn’t know that this was your sort of gig,” André says, holding his Leica in front of his body as though it’s a shield. “Wasn’t there a runway somewhere in Milan for you to walk on?”   
  
“So touchy, André,” Loïc says, his voice almost a purr. “You didn’t expect me to model for you forever did you?”   
  
André bites down on his lip. Loïc’s words sting more than he wants to admit. “Let’s take these damn photos,” He murmurs under his breath as Loïc places himself in front of the white screen.   
  
It goes well for the first five minutes. André allows Loïc to choreograph the shoot, snapping photos of him wordlessly - they’re beautiful - of course they would be with Loïc looking the way he does with his massive doe eyes and parted rainbow lips - but André can sense the annoyance coming in waves off Loïc as the studio descends into silence with the exception of the clicking of his camera.    
  
“Move your chin up slightly,” André says quietly over the clicking. “That’s perfect, hold it there-”   
  
He watches Loïc’s lips thin with annoyance. It’s been years but he  _ knows _ Loïc. He knows what he’s feeling - every model strives for perfection and Loïc is no exception, particularly when he knows that it’s a fight for the cover.    
  
“Are you going to make me do something else other than stand here mon cherie?” Loïc finally snaps out as the Leica continues clicking, André moving around slowly on his sturdy boots.    
  
“Then inspire me,” André pauses as he lowers his camera. “ _ Choupi _ ,”   
  
Loïc’s expression changes in that moment, his eyes darkening with anger as he fumbles with the buttons of his long sleeved, almost-sheer white shirt. André says nothing as pale skin that he has not touched for years is revealed under the bright studio lights.    
  
“You’re on, cherie,” Loïc hisses back, pushing a hand through his perfectly combed hair to mess it up, smearing his make up in the process. But he doesn’t care. He looks practically debauched.    
  
André feels the hurt and anger melt away as he moves around, captivated by Loïc twisting himself into different positions. His shirt falls further and further down, exposing more pale skin that seems to glisten under the lights. He’s trying to prove a point, André knows that - but he also knows that the best way to get the best photos from Loïc is to provoke him. However, as he’s snapping, he notices a small smirk curling over the plush of Loïc’s lips as the shirt suddenly disappears. André tries not to stop snapping - he is a professional after all, and to be honest, he can’t count the number of times he’s had Loïc underneath him - but he can’t stop staring at the pale skin slowly becoming exposed, almost teasing -    
  
Loïc’s jeans slowly plunge further and further down his hips until they soon join the shirt on the floor, the rainbow flag discarded by Jev from the last shoot finds itself in Loïc’s hand and draped artfully across his body.    
  
“Work for that cover,” André mutters under his breath. Loïc always looks best in black and white, and André is already adjusting his settings with that in mind - the only colour will be the bright colours of the flag and his lip make up - it will look incredible, especially with the raw emotion displayed on Loïc’s face-    
  
“I’ll make you work, Lotterer,” Loïc hisses out between his teeth in French. André only smirks from behind his camera. He knows the best way to evoke emotion from Loïc is to fake indifference. Loïc  _ wants _ that cover. André knows that he watched Jev’s photoshoot - Loïc likes to watch his competition, to know how he can beat them. It’s always been a bit of a ruthless streak of his character and one that André was always drawn to.    
  
“I know you can do better than that,” André whispers, the smirk curling over his lips as the words part from his mouth. He knows how to press Loïc’s buttons, he always has. “Make it work,”   
  
Loïc swears at him under his breath - half in French and half in German - but it’s exactly the reaction that André wanted. Loïc looks exquisite. The anger on his face gives way to passion, the flag gently brushing against his pale skin held tightly in his fist. He looks powerful, his gaze staring off into the distance, his other hand brushing against his smeared, ruined lips. It’s beautiful and André has no doubt that the magazine management will have a hard time deciding who gets the cover.    
  
“More, more-” André says as he moves around, the click of his Leica the only sound banishing the silence. “Push it further-” The photos are looking more and more impressive, the angrier Loïc gets. André knows that Loïc could easily get the cover with any of the shots he’s just taken but he knows there’s a touch more. He just needs to tease it out of the younger man.    
  
Loïc’s professional facade drops for a moment. “You weren’t saying that to  _ Vergne _ ,” He murmurs under his breath.    
  
“You jealous?” André fires back.    
  
Loïc gives him a glare that could stop traffic and André knows he’s about to explode. He can see the tightness in Loïc ’s expression, the clenched fist around the flag still artfully draped against his body.    
  
“We got it,” André declares with a smirk, lowering his Leica. “That was perfect, _ darling _ ,”   
  
Loïc remains silent, but the expression on his face looks like thunder as he throws down the crumpled rainbow flag and storms out of the studio space. André watches him leave, his lip caught between his teeth and something buried deep in his chest that he can’t place.    
  
“Well, he was not happy was he?” A voice pipes up through the silence. André spins around to see Jean-Eric Vergne leaning in the doorway with his arms folded. He looks softer than usual - hair free of product and falling free on his forehead, his form enveloped by a large grey cardigan that André is sure is Versace or Balenciaga.    
  
“You don’t usually watch other people’s photoshoots,” André points out, gently packing his camera away as they prepare to have a break.   
  
There’s a small smile playing on Jev’s lips and an indiscernible expression on his face. “Have to watch my competition don’t I?”   
  
André says nothing else as he zips up his bag and brushes past the tall French mode, not noticing the amber eyes following his backside as he leaves, the smirk still clinging to plump lips.    
  


* * *

  
André’s thoughts are full of Loïc’s angry face, in comparison with the deadly calm of Jev’s expression as he walks away from the studio space, eager to grab a sneaky cigarette. He doesn’t usually need one for jobs like this - he can usually handle the irate and stroppy models - but seeing Loïc again opened up so many doors that André thought he closed years ago.   
  
“What the fuck was that?” Loïc’s angry French lull assaults André the second he steps into the cool down room, which is thankfully empty at the moment. “Do you enjoy trying to embarrass me, André?”   
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” André says, holding his hands up as though to surrender. “I didn’t even know you were coming to the shoot today,”   
  
Loïc steps closer, his eyes shining dark and dangerous. “You just wanted to sabotage me to get Vergne on the cover instead,”   
  
“You’re delusional, Loïc,” André says, trying to ignore Loïc moving closer and closer into his personal space.   
  
“Is it because I left you all those years ago? I had an opportunity, you would have done the same-”   
  
“It was nothing to do with that.”   
  
“Just admit that you wanted Vergne on the cover instead of me,” Loïc hisses, inches from André’s face. André has had enough. He grabs Loïc, slamming him against the wall, his hands fisted in the thin robe that Loïc has slipped on.    
  
“Maybe I did,” André hisses before he leans in, capturing Loïc’s lips with his own. It’s familiarity entwined with passion and heat - he forces his knee in between Loïc’s thighs, his fingers leaving bruises on Loïc’s pale wrists as their mouths connect. Loïc’s teeth scrape against the corner of André’s mouth and he’s reminded of all the times they made out when they were young hopeful nobodies, tangled together on a hotel bed. Their bodies seem to connect together, heat spreading over André’s groin as he ruts up against Loïc, the robe slipping down the Frenchman’s shoulder, exposing milky white skin.    
  
“Oh fuck, André-” Loïc murmurs out against his mouth. André ignores the way Loïc calls his name, it sounds almost like begging. He knows it’s wrong to go back to Loïc after all this time but he needs a release. His hand inches towards the opening of Loïc’s robe, ghosting over pale thighs, brushing against Loïc’s hardening dick, pre-come coating the tips of his fingers -    
  
“What is going on in here?” Another familiar French voice cuts through the silence and André rips his mouth away from Loïc to find Jev standing in the doorway with wide eyes. 


End file.
